


On a Hobbit in Erebor (and how to abduct him)

by seaweedredandbrown



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Lighter than it sounds, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5991217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedredandbrown/pseuds/seaweedredandbrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kidnapping and assassination attempts became a weekly occurrence. No matter how little the intrigue, how ridiculous the feud, Bilbo found himself the go-to target of whoever was holding a grudge against the King, his Company, the Royal Household, the members of the Elder Council and that nasty guildmaster who refused to pay her apprentices fairly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Hobbit in Erebor (and how to abduct him)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atisenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/gifts).



> **Prompt** : “I've been thinking about how Bilbo is being kidnapped in many fics, and how it would be amusing to read one in which he's just so done! The kidnapper is talking at him, while Bilbo swiftly undoes his ties, sends some hidden daggers or whatever at them and marches out, all annoyed because they made him miss dinner. And then he would go to the throne room and say something like: "sorry I'm late. I got kidnapped again" and sit beside Thorin with a sigh.”
> 
> This was written for the lovely [@atisenia](http://atisenia.tumblr.com/), whose skills as a conductor of light are only matched by the kindess of her soul.  
> And this would not have been so pleasing to read without the proofreading, suggestions, comments and corrections of [@pangur-pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/), to whom I am forever in debt.

The first time happened just a few months after the reclaiming of Erebor.

Bilbo was taking a stroll among the lesser-used tunnels, in a part of the city not yet rebuilt, a few days after announcing his intention of returning to the Shire. Not unexpectedly, his friends had reacted in their usual, dwarven way, which is to say not well at all. He was glad to escape, if only for a moment, their constant stream of worries and inquiries. How could it have come as such a surprise to them?

Bag End was where Bilbo belonged.

It was his little smial under-hill, with his garden, his books, his armchair by the fire.

It hosted the rooms that had seen him grow up from little fauntling to quite respectable gentlehobbit – the great hall, the study, the master bedroom that was his parents' and that he never found the courage to use.

It housed their portraits, quietly hanging above the mantelpiece, and the thousands of memories that went along.

In a word, it was his home, in many more ways than Erebor could ever hope to be.

And he yearned to go back.

To see the green hills, to hear the little rivers, to smell the baked dishes cooling down by open windows. To chat with Hamfast, to exchange polite insults with Lobelia. To visit the market, buy himself maybe a handful apples, perhaps a sausage or two, and cook his own meals in the soft, warm light of his kitchen.

To go out for a pint in a pub where everybody else was equally barefoot and nobody was half of anything, please and thank you.

Oh, yes, Erebor was grand, and splendid, and wonderful: a city such as the world had never known the like of. He would sing its praise in all the books and all the poems he'll ever write.

But the Lonely Mountain wasn't without its downsides.

For one thing, he thought, as he sauntered among the bits and pieces of ancient columns and broken archways, putting some distance between himself and Erebor would probably help with what he privately referred to as the “Thorin Issue”. 

(Not that he actually had mentioned it to anyone, mind you.)

And for a second thing, Hobbiton was completely devoid of hooded strangers springing at you from behind the aforementioned broken archways, flashing daggers in hand, with single-minded determination to knock you out and keep you in some abandoned cellar for the next two days.

After that unfortunate incident, Bilbo had been adamant to leave as soon as possible – once the bruises had healed and the nightmares somewhat subsided. He'd be safer in his little Shire. To tell the truth, he'd feel safer on the road to said Shire. That made sense, didn't it? After all, he had no enemies in Bagshot Row.

But Thorin would not hear any of it. Neither would anyone else, really. They took turns watching him, guarding him, escorting him wherever he went. The hobbit tried to tell them that this lack of privacy was _exactly_ what drove him away in the first place. Alas, they were dwarves, and thus refused to listen.

Bilbo grew wary and weary, until Balin took him aside and enlightened him with the finer details of whatever plotting was going on in the court at that time. It would make Thorin appear weak, the older dwarrow explained, if he couldn't even protect his burglar friend in his own realm. There was no running away to the Shire now - not until the entirety of this was resolved. It was a pity, Balin had said, that the rescue party who had found Bilbo locked in his cellar did not have the common sense to keep the culprits alive for further interrogation. 

That's what he'd gotten for putting Dwalin in charge, he added with a sigh.

\- - -

The second time, Bilbo was with Ori, coming back from the remains of the once grand Library of Erebor. It had been a few weeks since the last incident and the hobbit was finally starting to unwind.

The two were on their way to the dinner hall when a shadow passed over Bilbo's eyes. Before he could understand what had happened, fabrics were torn apart and blood was spilled, tainting Ori’s leather bookcover. 

The hobbit’s brain suppressed some of the more gruesome memories in the moments that followed. Yet he remembered that afternoon as the hour he discovered, with great interest and not a small amount of fright, the ancient dwarven art of picking your opponents' eyes out of their sockets with knitting needles and writing quills.

It turned out that even dwarrows did not remain mentally stable in the face of such intense physical pain. There was no point in questioning the sad fellows after Ori had dispatched of them, however desperately the Company may have wanted to know the motivations behind their treachery. Nor did Balin have it in him to scold the poor lad when he saw how guilty Ori felt. The fiercely protective warning look Dwalin cast him over the sobbing scribe's shoulder might or might not have played into his decision to let this slide, just this once.

Nevertheless, the dwarves saw their concern renewed, and Bilbo resigned himself to never having a moment's peace ever again. He accepted an escort, as long as it was made of people he knew and trusted. He took to wearing his mithril shirt at all times. The magic ring in his pocket rose to haunt his thoughts more often, and his fingers often toyed with its solid weight. Unfortunately, it was of no use to him when he was surrounded from morning till night and from night to morn. 

(As queer as it sounded, he was yet reluctant to tell his friends about its existence. It would have made things much easier, but… there was always another important subject to breach, or everyone was busy, or it just wasn’t the right time, really.)

Within the great halls of Erebor, always crowded with Dwarves, Men and Elves going about their business, the little hobbit missed the quietness of his front porch. He longed for a smoke pipe in the garden, some summer stargazing... a decent serving of vegetables.

The nights quickly proved to be the worst, as Thorin insisted on having his burglar moved into his private chambers. The king even went so far as to offer opening his bed to Erebor’s only hobbit, for added protection. Bilbo knew his limits and would not play with fire – the scorching heat of two very icy eyes – in such a critical time. Besides, it wouldn't be proper. They weren't courting, were they? It would not be proper _at all_.

However, it did take some very firm foot-stamping, as well as some determined arm-crossing, for the hobbit to get this particular point across. No courting meant no bed-sharing, thank you very much. In the end, it was agreed that Bilbo’s bed be moved next to Thorin's, in an arrangement that satisfied etiquette but annoyed everyone else.

\- - -

This was not, unfortunately, the last of the trials for poor Bilbo's nerves.

For although that particular conspiracy was halted and the culprits condemned, the attacks themselves continued, becoming a weekly occurrence. No matter how petty the intrigue, how ridiculous the feud, Bilbo found himself the favourite target of whoever was holding a grudge against the King, his Company, the Royal Household, the members of the Elder Council or that one especially nasty guildmaster who refused to pay her apprentices fairly. 

It’s no surprise that Bilbo's health began to deteriorate. It's hard to maintain your good mood when you can't have a moment's peace, when everything from the food to the language is foreign, when people are trying to attack you in the very city you helped reclaim. 

It doesn’t help when you have to sleep right next to the one person you'd like to do everything but just sleep with, and you can’t tell anyone. 

It becomes even harder when you're called on to help your friends get on with their own relationship issues. ( _“No, Bofur, for the last time, I am not into beardless dwarrowdams, nor into any dwarrowdams, for that matter. Please do stop introducing them to me. It doesn't help. Now, would you like me to buy her a drink and say it’s from you?”_ )

Yet life went on, as it usually does. Bilbo did his best to keep up a cheerful face, to forget the soft snoring in the bed next to his, and to resist the urge to jump in the next caravan to Eriador.

\- - -

They – whoever “they” were – once tried to poison his tea. The hobbit was only saved by the in extremis intervention of Fili, who bumped into him while running away from his mother. That prompted Bilbo to drop his cup to the floor - and his beverage to melt the mortar.

Dori himself had personally selected the leaves. In the hours that followed, it took Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Bifur _and_ Bofur to keep him from shaving his beard and his head in shame... Until, at last, it was revealed that the culprit didn't poison the tea, but _the cup itself_.

After that it required those selfsame dwarves much of their strength to keep the eldest ‘Ri from breaking all tableware in the vicinity. 

They did find out where the guilty cup came from, although doing so involved a very lucky encounter between a wayward servant on her discreet way out of the city, and Bilbo himself, who had definitively _not_ slipped on his ring to snoop around the cutlery cupboards in the kitchen that very evening.

\- - -

The fourteenth time... Around the fourteenth time, these assaults were becoming something of a joke.

A new ballad was going round the city. It gained popularity after one particularly eventful assassination attempt that had seen Thorin himself jump into the fray, Deathless in hand and rage in his eyes, to the cry of ‘You will LEAVE my burglar ALONE!’'.

“. _.. And thus he saved his dam–_ Ori!” Bilbo had yelped painfully, a Westron copy of the incriminating poem in hand, “Ori, why does this say 'damsel in distress'? This isn't referring to me, is it?” Bilbo found his voice rising at the scribe’s suddenly retreating back. “Why, Ori, come back now, sweet child! Come back and ex... Ori, come back and make them change the verse, or I'm telling Dori why you've been knitting so much lately! Ori? Ori, come back, I'm warning you!”

Alas, it occurred that young dwarven librarians do run much faster than flustered middle-aged gentlehobbits. Bilbo never got to make him change the damn line, mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to punish his young friend with anything stronger than some determined finger-pointing and a very telling wriggle of his nose.

\- - -

The twenty-third time, Bilbo was talking with Nori, somewhere in the lower city. He had a flagon in each hand and music in his ears on the occasion of... well, maybe one of Bombur's many children’s birthdays, he believed. There had been a dinner for the little pebble and an enormous quantity of good food and good cheer.

And then Nori had called, with a wiggle of his brow, “Come on, then, let us enjoy some more _adult_ pleasures!”. That had meant gambling and drinking, obviously. Then singing, and drinking some more, as the torches burnt bright in everyone's eyes, and Bofur had his flute, and Dwalin had his violin, and Fili and Kili had little drums, and – ugh, who ever thought that letting _them_ near _drums_ was a good idea?

But it was all so light, so joyful! Bilbo felt a heavy burden leave him, a burden he didn't know he carried; he felt it slide off his shoulders, evaporating in the froth at the brim of his tankard. Thorin even joined them at some point, the King laughing and singing with them. The fact that he didn't end up wailing on Dwalin's coat, apologizing to his nephews between two drunken sobs, was a welcome change of pace. 

Even so, Bilbo’s heart ached to see him so happy and so free, in some inexplicable, blurry way - slashing his hope to ever link the happiness of the King to his own. Thorin was a friend, and a good one, but there was no chance of them growing any closer if the King could clearly enjoy himself so much while his burglar only wanted to drown his homesickness and his sorrow. 

This line of thought led to more beer, then wine, then liquor; and when most of the dwarves had gone back home, Bilbo found himself still drinking, talking and singing, Nori pouring him glasses after glasses in the now deserted tavern.

So it was a hazy hour when the hobbit began to wobble back to his chamber. He was happily chattering with his fellow thief at the corner of some streets, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this... To a life of good song, good cheer and high stone pillars. This could never be Hobbiton, of course. But he could always get Gamgee to send him his parents' portraits over the next convoy, and maybe ask to use a parcel of the vast lands outside the gates as a little garden of his own.

 _Yes_ , Bilbo had thought, determinedly ignoring his longing for regal attention, _maybe this wasn't so bad, after all._

He had been about to voice that thought when he felt the cold bite of a blade against the flesh of his throat. As ale-sodden as he was, he did not think about drawing his Sting or putting his ring on, but with Nori at his side, neither were necessary. There was blood, yes, and some downright frightening laughter from between Nori’s perfectly white teeth. And when all was said and done, Bilbo found himself commenting boldly, “Blimey, Nori, I had no idea there was so many ways to kill someone!” 

Having to wash bodily fluids off his favourite tunic did not help with his hangover the next morning, and his foul mood was only worsened by Thorin's fast-pacing, jaw-clenching and general brooding in all corners of their shared rooms, coloured as it was by shouts of “Who? Who _dares_? Is that those Rhûn scum?” and “Elves! If this is the tree-shaggers’ doing again, I...”

\- - -

Elves.

It was never elves, Bilbo often sighed.

It was Men once, though. Bard came himself to apologize in the name of his people, bringing the limbs of the perpetrators in nine different boxes. Thranduil accompanied him, though nobody knew (or dared ask) why.

Thorin even made efforts to be only mildly rude. Those lasted until the Elf-King suggested snidely that if Thorin couldn't keep his _ghivashel_ safe, then perhaps it was best if Bilbo was to be an honoured guest in the Forest again. 

It is unlikely that anyone would ever forget how the King Under The Mountain then proceeded to properly loose his temper. He jumped at his woodland colleague's face and trying to strangle Thranduil with his own silver hair, almost starting a war amidst the shocked gasps of the court. Bilbo had never fought so hard the temptation to put his ring on and disappear, so mortified was he of his kingly friend’s antics.

He was also very cross, especially when everyone absolutely refused to tell him what a _ghivashel_ was. Later, the blame slipped from Thorin’s temper to Kili’s careless use of Khudzul in front of an Elf, although no-one cared to explain that to Bilbo either.

\- - -

It was on this occasion that, at last, someone brought knowledge of those foul attacks to Lady Dis, Queen Under The Blue Mountains, mother to the Heirs of Durin, and self-proclaimed Only Dwarrow With an Inch of Common Sense This Side of the Misty Mountains.

She proved herself worthy of her title when she dragged her _brother dearest_ into her private chambers for “words.” Their little chat lasted the better part of an hour and got the walls shaking and the furniture trembling, reminding some of the older citizens of that fateful dragon attack, so many decades ago.

Nobody wanted to translate the Khudzul bits to Bilbo, of course. Fortunately, he could understand the parts in Westron just fine, even in his own bedroom, the door closed and his head under a pillow.

In particular, Dis’ bellowed “Mahal help me, Thorin, if once, if just for once you could THINK BEFORE ACTING, brother, think before acting, but no, you had to go and bloody GRAB Thranduil by the BLOODY THROAT” was rather pleasing to hear, and the part about “COURTING GIFTS ARE NOT COURTING GIFTS IF YOU DON'T SAY THEY ARE, DIMWIT” was most enlightening.

When said dimwit later slunk back in defeat to their shared chambers, an even more enlightening conversation followed, just between the two of them, accompanied by some much overdue kissing and snuggling.

This new development quite improved Bilbo's spirits and gave him new strength. The hobbit was genuinely starting to see himself staying here, under the Mountain, at the King’s side. For the quietness of his little smial would be lonely without a shared bed, cold without the warmth of Thorin's arms across his shoulders, silent without the King's soft laughter in his hears.

It was settled, then. Bilbo decided that if tentative abductors were coming his way, the least this proper Hobbit from the Shire could do was to welcome them with all the hospitality they deserved.

Which is why, when a group of cloaked figures next cornered him in some rarely-used mine he wasn't even supposed to enter, Bilbo was _ready_.

\- - -

“Oh no, you don't.”

The first dagger cut right through the eye of his closest opponent, snuffing out his life on the spot.

“No, you don't,” Bilbo snapped out coldly. “You just don't.”

The second sliced another attacker’s throat open, startling their ranks and disrupting their formation.

“You don't get to capture me today, or tomorrow, or any other day, for that matter!” Talking through gritted teeth, Bilbo slid out another blade from his waistcoat. (Leather-padded pockets. You could always count on the ‘Ri brothers and their innovative sense of fashion.) “Whoever you are this time, I've had enough of this, _thank you very much_.”

Two of his foes were down, but there were another three of them yet, and they meant business. Maddened by the fall of their comrades, they might not be satisfied with just tying their quarry up neatly and gloating over their evil scheme to usurp the throne until Thorin's inevitable rescue party arrived.

And Bilbo hated violence, he really did; but his ring was heavy in his pocket, softly calling him, whispering in the hobbit’s ear to _Put me on and end this_. Wouldn't it be nice to show them? To see them meet their maker, in a fury of blood and broken bones? To let his anger sing?

Oh, yes, Bilbo was angry. He realized it when red tainted the ground and still his heart barely flinched.

He was angry. 

Angry at the dwarrows that never left him alone. Angry at the cultural barriers that had him pass for a fool in the first weeks of the Quest. Angry at the Heirs of Durin for almost getting killed, angry at the whole bloody big city so tall and cold that it made him feel even smaller than he already was.

He was angry at the universe, at fate, at destiny, for thrusting him outside the quietness of his routine, for all the sweat and the tears he had shed in the past two years.

All this bottled anger needed an outlet, and since his embroidery kit hadn't arrived from Hobbiton yet, teaching his would-be kidnappers some manners would have to do.

“Now, I have a very important meeting with my husband...” His voice trailed off, his mind somewhat not paying attention to whatever it was his hands were doing. “...Involving, yes, a fireplace and a rather good book.”

He took a silken, Harad-made white handkerchief out of his waistpocket and cleaned his blade. “ So if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, may I take it that you won't be holding me for long?”

In the half-light of the mine tunnels, among the blood and the weak moans, Bilbo's cerulean eyes shone with pure, unlimited spite.

\- - -

Thorin looked up from his report when his consort entered their shared room. He did his best not to worry when Bilbo didn't come back to him straight at the end of his day, and really, he had made so much progress on that front. 

He was proud to admit that his mood was only mildly panicked that evening, the edges of the parchment in his hands only a little creased and bent under his almost constant fretting.

With a smile, he watched as the hobbit let himself collapse into his own favorite armchair by the hearth.

“Yet another boorish encounter with the Guildmasters, beloved?”

“Oh no,” answered Bilbo, packing his pipe nonchalantly, “none of that. Got accosted by some representatives of yet another Iron Hill separatist faction on my way back. All done for, I'm afraid.”

He pulled a lengthy drag. Thorin barely registered the sweet scent of tobacco filling the room, a cold sweat dripping down his back. Again? Someone had tried to seize his âzyungel, again?

And Bilbo had... killed them all?

Well, he would have to ask Ori to change that popular song, then. Nothing much, perhaps add a couple verses. 

In truth, his husband was no damsel in distress. And it would not be told that Erebor’s first Hobbit consort should go down in history without a song to celebrate his ferocity in battle. The King made a mental note to order an epic to his best minstrels the very next day, and, with a contented smile, returned his attention to the most precious of his jewels. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ghivashel = treasure of all treasures.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Do feel free to leave any feedback, good or bad. You can also contact me on [Tumblr](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com/) \- I'm always happy to discuss Bagginshield!


End file.
